


Aomine and Kise Drabbles

by Lys ap Adin (lysapadin)



Series: Drabble Posts [4]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Ficlet Collection, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:13:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysapadin/pseuds/Lys%20ap%20Adin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A place to collect miscellaneous Aomine and Kise drabbles and ficlets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Meme and prompt fills from Tumblr. Updated periodically.

Aomine and Kise Drabbles

 

**Domesticity**  
#Kise has layers  
#like an onion or perhaps a parfait 

The thing about Daiki is that with him, what you see is pretty well what you get. There's never any need to wonder whether he is hungry, or tired, or bored, or horny—Daiki will be sure that everyone knows just how he's feeling, loud and clear and why hasn't anyone done anything about it yet? Even the other things, feelings, those are pretty transparent too, coming from Daiki. Rough around the edges, sure, but then, so's Daiki—if Ryouta had to pick one word to describe him, it would probably have to be _elemental_.

He's not like that. Pretty much the opposite, in fact—Kise Ryouta has lived a very public life since middle school and is well-schooled in how to present different faces to the world as seems appropriate at any given moment. Most people, he knows, are not really interested in anything beyond that, not really. That's fine—that's better than fine, he makes a damned good living trading on his ability to offer the right surface at the right time—but it is a little lonely, maybe, moving through crowds of people and never really connecting with them. Hollow, maybe.

But then he goes home and Daiki hooks an arm around his shoulders, grumbling about how late Ryouta is and how hungry he's been and isn't it time to eat already, where are the delivery menus, and Ryouta feels at home in his skin again, because the best part about Daiki's utter transparency is that Daiki never expects anything but the same from him in return.

 

**"I know you better than anyone else"  
#Kise likes watching Aomine**

He loves to watch the way Daiki moves, full of the unconscious rangy grace of a hunting cat even in his laziest moods. His agent still weeps over the way Daiki laughed in her face when she tried to talk him into just one photoshoot, just the one, Kise-kun, can't you talk him into it somehow? 

Ryouta doesn't know whether he could have done it or not, but he's not sure it would have worked either way. Daiki has something, a kind of presence, that he's not sure would translate very well in pixels or ink. Or maybe that's just him, struck stupid by Daiki every time since the beginning. Who can say?

It's not like it matters in the end. Ryouta knows what he likes, and Daiki is right at the top of that list whether he's playing or lolling around looking at his precious gravure magazines ("Hey, you should do one of these sometime") or when he's like this, braced over Ryouta, his grin slicing white across his face as he rolls his hips just like _that_ , _fuck_. Ryouta wraps his hands around Daiki's wrists, hanging onto him and watching him from beneath his eyelashes as pure sensation lances up his spine. 

Daiki's laugh brushes over him, intimate as a caress. "That the spot?" he asks, doing it again, and Ryouta would swear at him for being such a damn tease if only he could catch his breath long enough to do it. "I guess so."

And then he _moves_ , surging against Ryouta, rocking his hips against Ryouta's with a rhythm far steadier than the way Ryouta's heart is pounding, trying to drum its way right out of his ribcage. Ryouta answers that the only way he can, bucking into the way Daiki moves over him and pleasure twists through him, tightening with every shift and slide of Daiki's cock inside him, nearly unbearable. His throat is parched with the ragged way he pants for breath and his skin is slick with his sweat and the sounds he makes are completely undignified. None of that even slows them down for a second, not until Ryouta gives in to the desperate crescendoing edge of that heat and reaches for his cock, one stroke, two, and _there_ , he hits the peak and loses track of everything outside of his own skin as he flies apart.

He only barely comes back down in time to see Daiki arch over him, nearly growling as his hips jerk against him, the stutter of them sending another ripple of pleasure up Ryouta's spine, before Daiki sags over him, sprawling against his chest and panting into the hollow of his throat. "Holy fuck," Daiki says, breathless against his ear. 

"Yeah," Ryouta agrees, not capable of much more and utterly content with that.

 

**Aomine and Kise, run  
#sometimes it's fun to see Kise having to work at something**

Mostly they run laps when it comes to it—endless laps around the gym or around the Teikou sports fields, if the weather is nice, sometimes stadiums when Akashi-kun and Coach are feeling particularly sadistic. It's cardio, Kurokocchi tells Ryouta when he falls over and complains with what little breath he has left. Cardio to support the endless amounts of running up and down the court that happens during a game.

Not that Ryouta has been tagged to play any games yet. Not real games. Playing support for the second string doesn't count, to his way of thinking.

He gets the logic behind it, but it's so _boring_. There's nothing interesting about pounding around in great big circles until his calves and thighs burn, until his shirt sticks to his chest and his hair drips sweat, until his lips and throat are dry with panting. It's hard work, nothing he can skip past the way he normally does—his gift for mimicry can't substitute stamina or endurance, and up to the point he wandered past the gym and got clocked with a basketball and his destiny, Ryouta hadn't bothered much with physical conditioning past what was necessary to keep him sleek and streamlined for modeling jobs.

Ryouta still doesn't know what he thinks about that. Wonders, every time Coach blows his whistle and hollers at them to start running, whether he isn't crazy to have decided that this is what he wants. What he's been missing all along. Surely there must be some _other_ way out of his ennui, something that doesn't involve quite so much physical suffering?

There almost has to be, he reasons: surely in a world so wide and varied as this one, basketball cannot be the only answer.

And yet.

Every time he makes up his mind that really, this is ridiculous, that there is no call to be putting himself through this—every time he verges on the edge of calling it quits and finding something better to do with himself (as he's done so many times before), Ryouta stops himself before he can follow through.

Because, yes, running laps and conditioning training are boring, painful, the antithesis of fun—yes, all that is true, but even so, it cannot outweigh the reality of Aomine running a few strides ahead of him, loping along at a casual pace, shoulders broad and straight and his head high.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unavoidable

**#asuddenleap**   
**#Aomine/Kise, unavoidable**   
**#stylized drabble is stylized**

There's a certain inevitability to it, like the rhythm of a heartbeat or the arc of a ball sailing through the air and sinking through the net. So much of what they are (as individuals, to each other) is bound up in the game itself, the years of history they share, pursuer and pursued, teammate and opponent, goal and rival and friend. Why should this be any different? When he lets go of his last reluctance to see Aomine defeated, that's when Kise's game begins to bloom in earnest. And that's when the way Aomine looks at him changes, too, turns first considering and then hot.

It's a short step from rival to friend, and a shorter step still from there to lover.

These days it's all of a piece, the ebb and flow of a furiously paced one-on-one on the court and the shift and rock of their bodies against one another afterwards, pressed skin to skin, mouth to mouth in the showers, and who is to say which one of them is chasing the other now?


End file.
